


Puppy Sickness

by mittens1997



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Chris cares, Fluff, M/M, Sick Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 12:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8371918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mittens1997/pseuds/mittens1997
Summary: When Peter suddenly stops replying to Chris' texts, Chris wants to know what's up. Of course, given his luck, everyone sucks.





	

“Peter!” yelled Chris, hammering on the door of Peter’s apartment. “I know you can hear me! I’m not an idiot! Come out and _talk_ to me, Jesus! God, you’re being such a fucking baby—” He cut himself off when he saw Peter’s neighbor, Mrs. Jacobs, poke her head out of her door.

“Sorry, Mrs. Jacobs,” he said sheepishly, putting his hands in his jeans pockets. “Just—”

“Peter won’t answer?” she said, opening the door further and revealing her pink bathrobe and even pinker slippers. Her eyebrows were raised. “I figured as much.”

Chris swallowed. He didn’t know what it was about this woman, but she always made him uncomfortable. He figured it was because she reminded him of Victoria.

“Well?” she asked. “What are you still doing here? Run along.”

Her little Chihuahua, Princess, that Chris absolutely _hated_ ran out of her apartment and started yapping around Chris’ ankles.

Chris scowled. “Do you know where Peter is, Mrs. Jacobs?” he asked, trying very hard to ignore the dog as it mounted Chris’ leg. It reminded him unnervingly of Peter a few nights before as he brought himself off on Chris’ calf after blowing Chris.

She studied him carefully. “Aren’t you two dating? Shouldn’t you know?” She shook her head. “Poor Peter—always ends up with a rotten one, doesn’t he? Come, Princess.” The dog stopped trying to hump Chris’ foot (thank god), and Mrs. Jacobs turned on her heal and returned to her apartment.

Chris had no idea what in hell Mrs. Jacobs was getting at. He did, however, understand that Peter, for whatever reason, wasn’t opening the door. He _had_ to be home. He had told Chris the night before he’d be home.

“Fine,” Chris muttered to himself. “I’ll just break down the door, then.”

He stepped back. He’d need as much velocity as possible. But before he had the chance to even attempt to kick the door down—

“Oh no you absolutely will _not_ be breaking down my door!”

“Ha!” said Chris. “I knew you were here! Open the door, Peter. I mean it.”

“Oh,” came Peter’s voice from behind the door, scornful. “You _mean_ it, do you? Well then, I should _definitely_ open the door. The hunter _means_ it.”

Chris felt like he was missing a vital part of the equation. He had no idea why Peter was behaving this way. Just two nights prior, they had gone out as usual, drank, and fucked in the backseat of Chris’ car.

“Did I do something that I’m not aware of?” eventually asked Chris.

He swore he could make out a sigh from the other side of the door.

“No,” huffed Peter. “I just need to be alone.”

" _Why_?” demanded Chris.

“Oh my god, you don’t stop, do you?! I just want to be alone!”

“Not until you tell me why,” said Chris stubbornly. He didn’t understand why he cared, honestly. He and Peter had a good thing going—bitch at each other or to each other, fuck, sleep, and go home. Now Peter was being all weird and throwing everything off.

He heard Peter groan. “Argent, you are so fucking annoying.” It sounded like Peter was banging his head against the door. “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

A sudden realization hit Chris, and he was absolutely positive that he didn’t like it. “Is there someone _in_ there with you?”

There was a pause. “It wouldn’t matter if there was, would it?” sniffed Peter. “It’s not like we’re in a relationship anyway, so I’ll fuck whoever I want, thanks very much.”

Chris almost growled. Why the hell was Peter being like this? They didn’t fuck other people. Sure, they’d never _said_ that they were exclusive, but they were, weren’t they? Exclusive fuck buddies.

“That’s it,” snarled Chris. “I’m breaking down your door.”

“No! Fine!” said Peter. “There’s no one here. Don’t break down the door.”

“I’d like to see for myself,” said Chris, smirking now that it seemed he’d regained the upper hand.

Peter groaned. There was a pause, and then Chris heard the door locks being undone.

The door opened. There was Peter, standing in a bathrobe strikingly similar to that belonging to Mrs. Jacobs. He was holding a tissue in his hand, and looked very pale.

“I’m sick, okay?” he snapped. “I didn’t want you to see me while I’m sick.”

Chris pushed past him. There were tissues littered all over Peter’s usually pristine apartment.

“I thought werewolves don’t get sick,” said Chris lightly, carefully. He was worried—was Peter lying to cover up someone else he was fucking? Or worse, was Peter seriously ill? And since when did Chris give a flying fuck who Peter was screwing or how healthy he was?

Peter narrowed his eyes at him. “We don’t get _human_ sicknesses. We get—well, you know Mrs. Jacobs’ dog?”

Yes, Chris very much knew Mrs. Jacobs’ dog. Fucking monster.

“Yeah,” he said instead, trying very hard not to laugh. He was pretty sure he knew where this was going.

“Well, that stupid rotten thing got an upper respiratory infection, and it can’t get passed to humans, but… it can to werewolves, apparently,” Peter finished lamely. “And when I was out last night tracking down a djinn with Derek and Scott, I got hit with a spell from some evil fucking witches, and all my werewolf powers are muted for the next 48—” he looked at his watch “—well, now 26, hours.”

Chris’ face broke into a grin, and he began to laugh.

“Oh, shut up,” snarled Peter. “It isn’t funny. I feel awful. Everything hurts—” Chris laughed louder “—I have a fever—” Chris doubled over “—my feet are freezing and I have a horrendous headache—” now, Chris was clutching the edge of the couch for support “—and _oh my god, would you shut up?!_ ” he yelled.

Chris composed himself. “I’m sorry, Peter,” he said gently. “But I mean, come on. You’re always telling me not to make dog jokes, and now Mrs. Jacobs’ Chihuahua gave you an infection. You can see the humor, right?” He grinned.

“I’m glad you get joy from my pain, Argent,” he sniffed.

Chris rolled his eyes. “Oh, shush. So is that what this was? You didn’t want me to make dog jokes?”

“Something like that,” muttered Peter. He walked to the kitchen and began to put away dishes from the dishwasher. “Now are you leaving?”

Chris frowned. “Why would I leave?”

Peter froze, a plate in hand. “Why would you _leave_?” he repeated. “Why would you _stay_?”

“You’re sick, Peter, Jesus,” said Chris. He gestured to the tissues on the floor. “You’re living in a pile of germs. I’m gonna help you clean up. Go put down that plate and sit on the couch. I’m making you soup.”

Peter stared at him. “But—but we don’t _do_ this,” he said finally.

Chris rolled his eyes. “Well, maybe I want to,” he said firmly, and a lot more bravely than he felt.

Realization dawned on Peter. “You want to _date_ me,” he said breathlessly. “Christopher Argent wants to _date_ me.”

Chris opened up a cupboard and took out a pot. “Don’t sound so shocked.” When he glanced over at Peter, he found him beaming.

“And here I thought I was just a warm hole for you to fuck,” he said boisterously, though Chris could detect the vulnerability behind the statement.

“Well, you’re that, too,” replied Chris.

He had never seen Peter smile this much. “Oh my god, I’m gonna make you hate me,” he said excitedly, bouncing on his heels in a very Stiles-esque manner. “As soon as I’m better, you’re coming shopping with me.”

Chris scoffed. “No I’m not. Shut up and watch TV.”

“Oh yes, you are. And then you’re taking me on a real date. I expect to be wined and dined before I get fucked from now on, Christopher.”

Chris began to chop vegetables for Peter’s soup. “Oh, we’ll go on dates, Peter, but let’s be clear—I’m going to fuck you when I want to, where I want to.”

“You’d fuck me now, then?” asked Peter, sniffing the air. “I can smell it on you—you _want_ to.”

“Not while you’re sick,” mumbled Chris.

Peter gasped. “Don’t tell me you care about my comfort,” he said, feigning shock.

“That’s enough, Peter. Why the hell do you think I’m here? I’m taking _care_ of you. Now shut up, watch your damn model show, and let me take care of you.”

And, to his surprise, Peter plopped himself in front of the TV and flipped on _America’s Next Top Model_.


End file.
